What Dreams May Come
by Radon65
Summary: "'Survive the thunderstorm, and you get a Twinkie.' Moriarty smiled as he made the offer. 'Why should I want a Twinkie' Sherlock asked curiously. 'I never eat on cases.'" John has one of the weirdest experiences of his life. Half crack-fic, half serious fic. Series one spoilers.


This might _seem_ like a crack fic, but it actually isn't. Kind of. Just... enjoy. **SPOILER WARNING** for series one, but mostly just _A Study in Pink_ and _The Great Game_. It barely references _The Blind Banker_.

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><p><strong>What Dreams May Come<strong>

Moriarty was making it rain all over London, and the rain was purple. It ran into the drainpipes and sewers and flooded parking lots and made everyone a wet shade of lavender. Sherlock didn't particularly care until John pointed out that it was acid rain, and as it was killing all the field mice, he really ought to pay attention to it. So Sherlock sighed and threw the live, miniature version of Groucho Marx that he'd been experimenting on over his shoulder (did Sherlock even know who Groucho Marx was?) and pulled out a pair of hedge trimmers instead. He began to prune the bookcase, and John was trying to understand quite how that helped the situation when Lestrade appeared at the door, taking off his coat, which was made of marshmallows, and tossing it into the fireplace. There was no fire in the fireplace, but the coat began to burn immediately, and a jet of green flame shot out and knocked Sherlock to the floor.

"Oh my god! Sherlock, are you all right?" John demanded, rushing across the room to help his flatmate up. But when he got there, it wasn't Sherlock, it was Harry, and she was wearing a full-length red formal dress with transparent skulls scattered across it. John frowned. He _felt _himself frown.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked.

"Oh, bugger," was all that Harry said, but Lestrade replied, "He's in Brixton. He'll be right 'round once Switzerland gets done mooing." John wasn't sure what he meant, but decided that he ought to be polite and offered Lestrade a cup of tea.

"No, thank you," Lestrade answered, kneeling on the floor.

"Oh, aren't you pretty!" Harry cried, leaping out of the dress toward Lestrade, revealing that she'd been wearing a blue unitard with sequins underneath. Lestrade smiled and caught her hand. "What are you doing?" she asked, crouching down to his level. Lestrade frowned.

"I'm trying to make sure my shoes are straight." John blinked at what appeared to be Harry coming on to Lestrade, since he knew she'd preferred girls since she was twelve. But he didn't really mind, so he decided to go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea for himself. He went into the kitchen, where Mycroft was standing, glaring severely at him. John ignored him and took out a packet of red sugar.

"John Watson," Mycroft said crisply, "You have disgraced the queen."

"That's nice," John answered, wondering where the blender had gotten to. How was he going to make strawberry daiquiris without it?

"I'm _talking_," Mycroft said, putting his umbrella in front of John's face, "about Sherlock's disappearance."

"He's in Brixton," John said faintly, trying to move the umbrella out of the way. It seemed to have grown as large as a telephone pole and he couldn't move it. He tapped it with a fingernail instead, and it snapped at him. He jumped back, ready to throw the sugar in its face. It didn't have a face, and Mycroft was handing it to Anthea. She caught it between her teeth and walked out of the kitchen, through a door John didn't remember being there.

"No," Mycroft went on, picking up the teapot and scribbling on it, "He isn't."

"Oh." John looked at the sugar in his hand, and it seemed to be a handful of mud. He grimaced and went to the sink to wash it off.

"He's gone," Mycroft said flatly. "No one knows where. You have to find him."

"Why me?" John asked, trying to catch hold of the soap dispenser. It seemed to move away every time his hand got near.

"Because you have a way with unicorns," Mycroft replied.

"Do I?" John looked down and saw that his hands were clean. He rubbed them on his trousers, glad that he didn't have to deal with the soap dispenser anymore.

"Of course!" Mycroft shouted. "They're always in here, eating your acorns!" John heard a squeal from Harry from the other room. He decided he didn't want to know what was going on in there.

"Could you not shout?" Mrs. Hudson demanded, appearing in the kitchen and handing Mycroft a towel.

"Apologies," Mycroft said calmly, draping the towel over his head. "Now John, you really have to find Sherlock. It's very important. Otherwise, Moriarty is going to take over Spain."

"Spain?" John asked. "Why should he care about Spain? He doesn't speak Spanish, does he?"

"He speaks Hungarian," Mycroft said, by way of explanation. "And he's itching to try it out in preschool. So come with me."

"But the kettle's going off," John protested, reaching for it. Mycroft snatched it up and handed it, red-hot, to John. It didn't feel hot, but the words Mycroft had scribbled on it glowed orange against the red.

_Sunbathers at midnight_

it read.

_Find the missing shadow. Or else._

John set the kettle down, thoroughly unsettled.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Sherlock asked. John looked around. He was in the middle of a forest, and his flatmate was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" he called, stamping on a pine cone. The trees shimmered in response. John scratched behind his ear and wandered down a stony path lined with blue flowers. He sneezed.

"Bless you," Molly Hooper said. She was sitting the middle of the path, which was now mulch, holding a basket in one hand and reading from a copy of _Twelfth Night_ in the other. John noticed that the basket was full of an unhealthy squeaking.

"Sorry," John said. "Am I going to run you over?"

"Of course not," Molly said contemptuously. "I'd hit you first."

"Have you seen Sherlock?" John asked, in sudden inspiration.

"No," Molly answered. "He took all my corpses, you know. He wanted to stuff them with daffodils." This didn't sound like a very Sherlock thing to do, and John wondered if Molly might be mistaken. He walked around her off the path, and the flowers shriveled and died where he stepped.

"Sorry," he said again, feeling terrible.

"No matter!" a beetle shouted up at him. "Just don't piss off Anderson!"

"Um." John looked around. He didn't see Anderson anywhere. He decided not to mention that to the beetle, and kept walking. The path melted into a thick, white soup that seemed to cling to John's feet when he pulled them out of it. Then it slid off in great globs and made a thoroughly disgusting squelching sound. John swallowed hard, and hurried toward the pavement.

He was standing in front of Buckingham Palace.

"Huh." He laughed at this new development, and wondered where Molly had gone. The forest was dim and far away behind him. He turned back around to find the serial killer cabbie from the Pink case looking at him. He was sitting on a park bench, and the palace behind him seemed to be drooping. John wondered if it was the result of his pills.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

"I got bored," the cabbie admitted.

"Well, get the hell away from me!" John snapped, although the cabbie was really not that close to him. He pulled out his phone, intending to call Scotland Yard.

"You can't do that," the cabbie pointed out. "If you call them, they'll know you shot me." There was a small, circular hole on the left side of his chest. John hesitated.

"It doesn't matter," he answered finally. "I had to do it, and they'll believe me." He started cycling through his list of contacts, looking for Lestrade. His number didn't seem to be there. "I'll just call 999," John muttered to himself, but froze when he realized that the phone in his hand was Jennifer Wilson's pink one. Or the replica. He inspected it, trying to decide which, and eventually decided that it was the original, because it had a stamp on the back that said "The Real One." The cabbie still hadn't moved.

"Wait a minute," John said. "Sherlock - do _you_ know where Sherlock is?"

"I know everything, governor," the cabbie said cheerfully. John tossed the phone to the pavement and ran at the man.

"Where is he?" he demanded. The cabbie eluded his grasp and hopped on top of a trash bin. John couldn't quite reach him. He wished for Mycroft's teapot, so he could throw it at him.

"Last I heard, he was in Bristol," the cabbie answered, pulling a snail out of his pocket. "East side."

"Well, how do I get there from here?" John asked in exasperation.

"Fly, I guess," the cabbie suggested. "Here." He tossed the snail in John's direction and John caught it. It was red and angry and had Sergeant Donovan's face.

"Oh, hello," John said awkwardly.

"Get me out of this!" she hissed ferociously. John was afraid she might try biting his hand.

"Can you get a hold of Lestrade for me?" he asked tentatively.

"Just get me a coffee!" she snapped.

"I'll try to find one," John said placatingly. He put her in his pocket and looked back 'round for the cabbie. The cabbie was gone, and he was standing in the warehouse where Mycroft had first arranged to meet him, only this time there were a number of pink anteaters snuffling about on the ground. John patted his pocket and hoped that they wouldn't find Sergeant Donovan appetizing.

"Sherlock!" he yelled in despair.

"Don't worry John, I'm around here somewhere," Sherlock said gently. The soft strains of violin music began to play through the door, and John stepped forward eagerly, hoping Sherlock was nearby. He stepped on one of the anteaters and it sucked his left shoe off in retaliation.

"Sorry," John apologized again. He couldn't seem to get anything right, lately.

"Go boil your head," the anteater said rudely, and snuffled off. John swallowed nervously and pulled open the door. Sherlock was not on the other side of it, and instead, a tall maze of green glass candy stood before him. John wasn't sure how he knew it was a maze, since he could only see the first bit of it, but somehow he knew it was a labyrinth, stretching on for ages. He didn't want to go into it, but there seemed to be no other way to go. He stepped forward.

"Look out!" Sebastian Wilkes flew past him and into the maze, shouting about the dangers of puddlefish. John licked his lips and wondered if he should follow him. In the end, he headed into the maze.

It was dark and green and blocked a lot of the light, giving John the illusion that he was underwater. It took him a moment to realize that he _was_ underwater, but it didn't seem to be troubling his breathing, so he decided not to worry about it. He crept quietly through the maze, not sure if he was going the right way, but he hadn't hit a dead end yet. He comforted himself with the thought that if he got _too_ stuck, he could just eat his way out. It seemed like he had been walking for several minutes when he rounded a corner and saw Anderson leaning against a wall, holding a stethoscope to it and listening.

"Oh," John said in surprise. "What are you d - "

"Shh!" Anderson hissed. He rapped the wall sharply and winced at the sound coming through the stethoscope. Finally, he dropped the instrument and let it hang about his neck. "I'm trying to find out if this place is safe to eat," he said dubiously. "But I can't tell with you walking through it the whole time!"

"I... I think we can eat it," John said apologetically. He would have said "sorry," but he felt like he'd said that quite enough lately. "D'you know where Sherlock's got off to?"

"Damned if I know," Anderson answered, kicking at the base of the green wall. John suddenly noticed that he wasn't underwater anymore. He remembered Sergeant Donovan in his pocket.

"Oh, would you like this?" He asked Anderson, pulling the snail out of his pocket. It was still Sergeant Donovan, but she seemed to have grown younger in appearance. She was asleep, and there was a tattoo of a magpie on her left cheek.

"Oh, _excellent_!" Anderson cried, sounding unnervingly like Sherlock. He snatched up the snail and it woke, demanding to know the time. "It's 6:42," Anderson told her. "We'll just have time." He put her in the breast pocket of his scrubs and hurried off through the wall.

"Hey!" John shouted, indignant at the fact that Anderson could apparently walk through walls. He ran after him, and found that he could run through the green panels as well. They vanished like smoke in front of his eyes as he went through them, though when he glanced back, they remained extant behind. John hurried through them, wanting to get out of this mess. He burst out through the last panel and onto a London street, pausing and leaning over to gasp for breath while he got his bearings. Lightening rippled the sky overhead, and thunder crackled ominously. John ran to the nearest pub, not wanting to get caught in the rain. Angelo looked up from behind the counter and smiled at him.

"Dr. Watson," he said brightly. "We've been expecting you. Come on 'round the back." He reached behind the counter and plucked out a lighted candle, placing it in John's hand.

"I'm not his date," John said petulantly, glaring at the candle with distaste.

"Yes, but you'll need it when you get across the river," Angelo explained. "It's pitch dark over there. Follow me." With nothing better to do, John followed him. Angelo took him into a back room that led into a dark tunnel. There was a dripping noise coming from somewhere, and John wondered if it was the river Angelo had mentioned.

"Just go right through there," Angelo said, pointing. "And you'll get there soon enough." John wanted to ask _where_ it was he was supposed to be going, but Angelo had vanished, gone back to his counter. John gripped the candle tightly and swallowed hard.

"_Come on, John, where's your sense of adventure?_"

Sherlock's voice again. John just wanted to find him so they could go home. He took a step into the darkness.

Angelo's candle helped, but the footing was still unsure. John picked his way carefully across the damp and broken cobblestones, holding out the light before him. A large white rat skittered across the tunnel in front him. John paused to let it go by, and tried to ignore the waving shadows on the walls. He tried to move more quickly, and suddenly voices reached his ears. He wasn't sure what they were saying, but they sounded familiar. He spotted a light at the end of the tunnel and made for it, dropping his candle onto the wet floor as he went. He'd never liked it anyway. As he neared the end of the tunnel, his heart soared. One of the voices was Sherlock's! He stopped on the threshold as he made it to the light, and found that he was standing on a high stone ledge above a sitting room. Sherlock was sitting in one of the armchairs, plying a mournful tune on his violin. John's breath caught when he realized the second person in the room was Moriarty.

"Survive the thunderstorm, and you get a Twinkie." Moriarty smiled as he made the offer. He was standing before the fireplace, and the roaring of the fire mixed with the horrific crashes of thunder overhead.

"Why should I want a Twinkie?" Sherlock asked curiously, tugging on the strings of his violin. "I never eat on cases."

"Yes, but it's made of play-dough," Moriarty elaborated, as if this should make the Twinkie more desirable.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said calmly, setting down the violin and steepling his fingers. "I can get all the clay I want from a shop on the Thames."

"Well, then I'll burn it to the ground," Moriarty said sourly. Sherlock shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. John wondered if he should interrupt. He shifted uncomfortably. The ledge was slippery. John wondered why he didn't simply leap down and punch Moriarty in the face. It _would_ be awfully rude, he thought, and he'd spent so much time apologizing today. Still, it was Moriarty... Sherlock coughed.

"It won't do any good," he pointed out. "I didn't drink any tea."

"I poisoned the biscuits, too!" Moriarty snapped, annoyed. Sherlock smiled smugly.

"I never eat on cases," he repeated. Moriarty struck the fireplace mantle with an open hand. The clock sitting on top of it shuddered.

"The storm will get louder," Moriarty threatened. "And bigger. And it will turn to fire if I say so."

"Aren't we lucky to have all this rain, then?" Sherlock tipped back in the chair, watching Moriarty upside down with disinterest.

"I'll burn you," Moriarty murmured. "Burn the heart..."

"We've been through this," Sherlock said calmly. "Do you expect me to back down?" Moriarty whirled suddenly from the mantle, fury in his eyes. Sherlock sighed and flopped back into a sitting position on the chair. Moriarty reached forward and spun the chair so that it and Sherlock faced him.

"You do realize that I'm going to kill you," he hissed at Sherlock through clenched teeth.

"I never expected less," Sherlock answered, in the same calm tone. There was an immense crash of thunder overhead. The fire roared up in the fireplace, and Moriarty vanished, but Sherlock remained in the armchair as the fire poured out into the room, catching every paper and every thread of cloth.

"Sherlock!" John shouted in a panic. He launched himself from the ledge, landing lightly for such a long jump, and ran to where the armchair sat on fire in the blazing room. Sherlock was no longer in it, but as John glanced about wildly, he caught sight of him in a corner, his knees pulled up to his chest and a miserable expression on his face. John ran to him, startled to find him dripping wet and shivering.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said feebly, coughing again. "I did drink the tea. Every last drop."

"It's all right, it's all right," John said desperately, "I'll just call 999, where's my phone?" He couldn't find it in his pockets. "Can I use yours?"

"It won't work," Sherlock said miserably. "It's too wet." He pulled out his phone and it was on fire, and the fire caught on his sleeve and spread up his arm. John beat at it, terrified, while Sherlock watched him sadly, seemingly resigned to his fate.

"I only" _cough _"wish" _cough_ "I could have" _cough_ "stopped him."

"It's all right, Sherlock, you'll be all right..!"

But the room was filled with flames and Sherlock was burning and John's head hurt and his eyes smarted and he wanted to go home and damn Moriarty and all he stood for and why couldn't he put out the fire...?

"John! _John!_"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I should have jumped sooner, I should have helped you sooner! It's all my fault...!"

"_John! John! Wake UP!"_

"Hnng?"

John blinked open his eyes to find Sherlock shaking him roughly, the light on his bedside table on and cutting through the darkness of the room. Sherlock's eyes were wide and worried, and a frown creased his lips as he leaned over his flatmate, his curls flopping down over his forehead and brushing into his eyes. He was gripping John's arms with nearly bruising force, and was, John suddenly realized, clad not in a button down shirt on fire, but in his blue dressing gown and a pale white shirt. Neither of which were on fire. John sighed in relief.

"I'm sorry, John, it's my fault," Sherlock said quickly. "Those hallucinogens they were smuggling, you must have gotten a bit of them in that biscuit. No wonder you were so tired when we got home, I should have known, I realized it when I heard you shouting..."

"What?" John asked groggily.

"They put them in the biscuits," Sherlock explained. "People do that sometimes, 'special brownies' sort of thing, you know? Only I didn't know there were any in the one you ate, I'm sorry John, are you all right? How do you feel? Should I call an ambulance? You only got a taste, but still..."

"I... I think I'm fine." John took a deep breath, trying to still his shaking hands. Sherlock let go of his arms and stepped back, giving him a little space.

"Do you want a glass of water?"

"Um, yes, that would be nice, thanks." Sherlock disappeared through the door - John could hear him hurrying downstairs. He took several more deep breaths to calm himself, running a trembling hand through his hair and leaning back against his pillow. It had all been a dream. A very vivid, and annoying, and _terrifying_ dream, but it was just a dream and it had simply been brought on by hallucinogens and he wasn't going crazy. He hoped. John shook his head to clear it and tried to stop dwelling on the image of Sherlock burning before him, hunched up in a pit of flames and coughing himself to death... He could hear Sherlock thumping back up the stairs, and a moment later the consulting detective reappeared in the room, carrying a tall glass of ice water. The sight of him was reassuring.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Sherlock asked worriedly as John accepted the water and sat up to sip from it.

"Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock. I really think I'm fine." He was still a little anxious, but he attributed that to the drugs and the horrible last bit of the dream.

"I could hear you shouting from downstairs," Sherlock whispered urgently, quieting down now that John was lucid and awake. "What..." He paused. "Perhaps it's none of my business, but what on earth were you dreaming about?" John took another swallow of the water, not wanting to tell Sherlock about the dream but somehow needing to tell _someone_. And Sherlock was the only one there.

"I was... Well, I was looking for you, actually. Mycroft sent me," John began.

"Mycroft sent you looking for me?" Sherlock asked disdainfully. "Did he offer you money?"

"No, but I had to find you. You'd gone missing from the flat after Lestrade..." John paused, wondering how best to explain about the coat of marshmallows spontaneously catching fire. He decided to skip over it. "Well, a lot of it was nonsense, but I _was_ looking for you, that was about the only bit that made any sense." Sherlock nodded, his eyebrows drawing together as he listened quietly. "And there were people everywhere," John continued. "Molly, and Donovan - well, she was a snail, actually." Sherlock raised his eyebrows curiously. "And... and the cabbie from the Pink case." John shuddered slightly and Sherlock's eyebrows drew back together. "And Anderson, and Sebastian Wilkes - and all of them were useless..." Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, most of those people are."

"...Except Angelo, I guess. He's the one who led me to you."

"Angelo? Really?"

"Yes, the git gave me a candle and sent me down a tunnel, and you were on the other end and..." John trailed off and swallowed uncomfortably. Sherlock's sharp eyes did not miss the gesture.

"And?" he prompted significantly.

"And Moriarty was there," John whispered. Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line. "You were talking to him, and you seemed all right, but then he disappeared and he set the room on fire and I thought you were going to die and I felt terrible for not doing something sooner..." John trailed off miserably, setting the glass on the bedside table and not looking up at his flatmate.

"John."

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, very close to him. John glanced up in surprise, and found Sherlock gazing at him steadily, his eyes clear and colorless in the harsh yellow light.

"John, I'm perfectly fine. It was just a dream, and people don't usually have control of what they dream. _Particularly_ when they've ingested a mild dose of hallucinogens." He paused, clearly trying to gauge John with his eyes, then said slowly, "I have very little doubt that you will fail to help me in the future, if that's what worrying you."

"It's not just that," John said uncomfortably. "It's the whole image of you, on fire, and you were coughing because Moriarty poisoned your tea, too and... I couldn't do anything." Sherlock looked down at the bedsheets.

"John," he said quietly. "If we continue to fight Moriarty, there may come a time when - "

"Don't say that!" John snapped suddenly. "It's not happening." Sherlock's nostrils flared.

"That _was_ a dream John, but this is reality, and the _reality_ is that Moriarty is very dangerous! There's no sense ignoring it - in fact, we'll do better if we acknowledge it."

"I know, but..." John couldn't think of a good argument. He swallowed hard. "I just don't want to think about it." Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't enjoy it either, but it's not something I can avoid."

"Well, it won't be a repeat of last time," John said firmly. "Next time, _we're_ surprising _him_." Sherlock cracked a smile at John's projection - but the look in his eyes was sad and unconvinced. John swallowed hard and glared, refusing to let go his stubborn hold on hope. Sherlock looked away, glancing about the room and noting the time on the clock. John looked over and gave a jolt of surprise as he realized that it 4:02 in the morning. Sherlock grinned ruefully.

"Pity you couldn't have woken up at a decent hour, hm, John?" John groaned and brought a hand to his forehead. His alarm would go off in less than three hours. Sherlock smirked. "I think you can back to sleep though, can't you?" he said consolingly. "They should have worn off enough by now." John sighed.

"I can try." John leaned back against the pillow, biting his lip. He _was_ still tired, but he definitely didn't want another round of Wonderland with Sherlock dying at the end. He tensed as Sherlock leaned over and flicked off the light. He was tempted to ask Sherlock to stay in the room, but that would be childish and embarrassing. He was caught off guard when he heard Sherlock snagging a chair in the darkness and moving it near the edge of the bed.

"I'll just sit in here for a while," Sherlock said mildly. "Just in case the hallucinogens start acting up again. Do you mind?"

"No, that's fine, thanks." The words were out of his mouth before he even had time to think them. Sometimes, John reflected, it was extremely handy to have a flatmate who could read you like a book. John thought he could feel Sherlock smile in the dark.

"You're welcome, John. I hope you sleep better this time."

"Yeah, me too."

But with the warm and solid presence of a very alive Sherlock Holmes in the room, he had no doubt that he would.

John shut his eyes and waited for the dreams to come.

**The End**

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><p>Yes, that was it. I wrote this after a conversation with my roommate in which I told her many of the strange dreams I have had over the years, and the John perspective of a really weird dream just happened. It was extremely spontaneous - I wrote it barely a step ahead of myself the whole time, and if I had a thought for the dream, I rarely deviated from it, no matter what it was. I hope you had fun. And of course I stole the title from Shakespeare. Because I can. At least I threw in a copy of <em>Twelfth Night<em>! ...Any chance of a review?


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